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Expat Women Blogging

Chaos

My morning descended rapidly into chaos after the boys left on the school bus -- it's a good thing the oldest had unloaded the dishwasher.

First, I had to call my housekeeper (in Spanish) to tell her that the key would be at a neighbor's house because I would not be home.  Our conversation was cut off midstream, but we had covered all the important information, so I promptly made another call.

I had planned to go to work at a women's shelter with a friend and needed to see what time we were leaving.  No answer.

Which was a good thing because the doorbell was ringing.  I couldn't answer that right away, however, because the three-year-old was on the potty, yelling cheerily about his activities, and his calls had reached a fever pitch.

I dashed upstairs to make sure nothing untoward was happening.  False alarm, and I was sent packing by the three-year-old, who continued to holler out a blow-by-blow of his performance in the bathroom.

So then I opened the door.  It was the man who washed my car that morning; he was bringing me my change, returning a coffee cup, and wanted to chat (in Spanish) about the fact that next week he could use some rubbing compound on our car.

Great, but I had to run because the phone was ringing again.  Good-bye Manuel, thank you, dash to the phone.

It was my housekeeper again -- ever polite, she had called back simply to apologize for the break in the previous call and, inquiring politely and in an effort to help me with my Spanish, asked where I was going.

I thought about how to explain:  I'm going to a shelter for women and their families who are trying to break out of the sex trade.  We make beaded lanyards to sell to raise money both for the women and for the shelter.  They also learn trades like sewing, baking, etc.

I settled in Spanish for:  I'm going to San Jose with a friend.

She wasn't satisfied, and pressed for more details.  My Spanish was not up to the task.  I'm not sure what she understood me to say, but she helpfully provided the word "prostitute" when I stumbled, and along with me dredging up the word for "to help," she said she understood.  I'm not sure what she thinks we were doing this morning, but she approved.

I had to cut that call short because my three-year-old's cheerful yelling had taken on a plaintive tone, and he joined me where I was on the phone, minus several key articles of clothing, and with a suspiciously wet sock.

He had finished all that was necessary, and had apparently done some unnecessary things as well (hence the wet sock).  I didn't work too hard to untangle all the details; sometimes a mother just doesn't want to know.

So, a pair of dry socks and some clean clothes placed on the appropriate appendages and we were on our way.

Except for the crunching, grinding sound that met my ears when I tried to back out of the driveway.

It was a wheelbarrow; or what was left of one.  The groundskeeper for our condominio had parked it squarely behind my car and wandered off to have coffee.  The wheels still work, but he'll need a sledgehammer to make it usable again.

And it was only 8 a.m.

I think I'd just like to go back to bed.

The Haunting of my Garbage

I frightened him sometimes when I’d open the metal door to put my trash in the trash bin.  When we lived in Jakarta, I don’t remember that a trash truck ever came by, but all my trash somehow disappeared.  The moldy leftovers that had been forgotten for too long in my refrigerator, the fruit peelings, empty milk cartons, and the thousands of other things that were just so much detritus to be ejected from my home.  It all disappeared.

One of the biggest takers seemed to be a young boy, probably about eight years old.  I saw him several times; maybe he was just the least experienced.  Maybe in a few years, he’ll slip silently up and silently away and whoever it is who lives in my house now will never know he exists; never know he’s the one taking her stale bread and coffee grounds.

The first time I opened the metal door on my side of the 8 foot concrete wall, I found him, scrabbling around in the debris.  He looked up at me with wide, brown, startled eyes, his face smudged, his blue shirt filthy and torn, before scuttling away backwards, like a crab.  For my part, I stood in startled silence, the new trash bag dangling from my hand, my own eyes wide with surprise.

“Come back!”  I wanted to say.  “Come back, what do you need?  I have it, I’ll give it to you!”  But I spoke no Indonesian, and he was gone.

After that, I was embarrassed about the things I threw away.  They were still trash to me; I didn’t want them, but I was embarrassed to set them out for him to find as treasures, squashed between the JC Penney catalog and the scrambled eggs my son hadn’t wanted for dinner.

I saw him often; he was always startled, frightened, quick to disappear.  My Indonesian didn’t improve quickly enough for me to call to him; the best I could offer was a quick and encouraging smile.  No one else knew of our encounters; had the day guard seen him, he would have chased the boy away.  I spoke of him to no one; I wondered how I could help him.

And then I was required to get on a plane to go to America to have a baby.  And after that I was required to stay in America when all family members were evacuated from the Embassy.  And I never helped him, and I never spoke to him, and he has haunted me ever since.

Is he still finding treasures in the trash of the wealthy US Embassy employees who live in that house on Brawijaya street?  Does he have a home?  A family?  Does he live on the street?  What does he eat – or do I know and I am embarrassed to admit it?

And why was it so hard for me to think of a way to help him?  Couldn’t I have come to the trash, every time prepared with… a bag of clean clothes, some money, something to eat that wasn’t already garbage?

My son is eight now, about the age of the boy in Jakarta.  And I look in his smiling grey eyes and remember the startled brown ones from so long ago.  And I imagine what it would take for me to send my boy out to dig through someone else’s trash for his supper.

And then I imagine what it would take to make sure nobody’s sons or daughters would have to dig through the trash for their supper.

What would it take?

**Written in honor of Blog Action Day 2008: Poverty**

What Happens When Smoke Alarms Go Off in Embassy Housing

San Jose, COSTA RICA -- I hate to cook; let me just be frank.  Eating:  yes.  I love it.  Cooking:  I'd rather listen to children scream.  Of course, when I cook, I do get to listen to children scream.  Maybe that's why I hate it so much.

So I have this theory about cooking:  the hotter the temperature, the faster the thing will cook, and the sooner I'll be done (and the sooner the children will stop screaming).  So I cook everything on my stovetop on heat level "10":  eggs, meat, rice, delicate soups and sauces.  Under my iron fist it all chars beautifully.  And quickly.

Of course, it always burns.  Whatever 'it' is, it always burns.  This week it was pork chops.  And this is what happens when you burn pork chops on the stove in U.S. Embassy housing in Costa Rica.

First, the smoke detector goes off.  Actually, several smoke detectors go off because the Embassy puts them in Every Room.  Not a bad thing, I'm sure.  Unless it's a false alarm.

Second, I shut off the smoke detectors by dragging a chair underneath them, detaching them from the ceiling, removing the battery.... you get the picture.  Several times I do this.  You'll notice that I haven't yet turned off the stove.  Heavens no!  I've got to get that pork chop cooked!  (My housekeeper is smarter than I.  She turns off the stove.)

Third, I hear another alarm upstairs.  I dash upstairs,past my wide-eyed toddler, punch in the code, and cancel the house-wide security system alarm.

Fourth, the phone rings, so I dash back down past my still-wide-eyed toddler to answer it.  It is the guard at the front gate, who fires rapid and very concerned Spanish at me.  With a blank look, I hand the phone to my housekeeper and I learn the Spanish word for smoke:  humo.  I am to hear this word several times in the next few minutes.

Fifth, the doorbell rings.  It is a guard from the Embassy who fires rapid and very concerned Spanish at me.  With a blank look, I step aside and let my housekeeper explain.  Again I learn the Spanish word for smoke:  humo.  They both refrain from using the Spanish word for idiot, which I later look up on my own:  idiota.

Sixth, the phone rings again.  It is the guard at the front gate.  Again.  Who fires rapid and very concerned Spanish at me.  With a blank look, I hand the phone to my housekeeper, and I learn that the guard is a really nice guy.  My housekeeper translates into slower Spanish for me, and I understand:  he was just calling to say that if I ever have a problem, he's just a phone call away.

This does not change the fact that I feel like an idiota, the pork chops are burned to a crisp, and my house is full ofhumo.

The children come home, see what's for supper, and start screaming.  But I make them eat it anyway:  I worked hard to prepare that charcoal, and by gum they're going to enjoy it, humo and all.

Halloween Curmudgeon

OK, I just don't like Halloween; I am to Halloween what Scrooge is to Christmas; except I make him look enthusiastic about his holiday.  And in my defense, I can honestly say that I never really liked it.  Well, OK, as a kid the candy part was great, but I didn't like the rigamarole you had to go through to get it -- dressing up in a dorky costume to go and beg at the doors of strangers was not something my shy and retiring nature ever really yearned to do.

My kids have no such inhibitions.  We don't like scary -- no one in my family likes scary -- but ALL the kids love dressing up and begging and, of course, candy.

So every year I vow we are not going to go to the Embassy Halloween party, and every year we end up going.  Well, for one thing, all the kids there speak English and, my kids love that aspect of it ("UN Translator" is not a future job for any kid in my house).  And for another thing, the different offices pass out great candy -- chocolates, Starburst, SweetTarts.  I always confiscate the SweeTarts immediately.  They're one of my favorites, you can't get them overseas, and my rationale is that the kids won't appreciate them properly anyway.  I do.

So we went to the Embassy party last night, I baked cupcakes -- chocolate, wheat-free, with orange icing.  I was really proud of my creativity until I saw the decorations on some of the other cupcakes, hand-drawn icing spiderwebs, "Boo!" and the like.  It turns out I'm actually a decorating schlump.  I also made sandwiches for the potluck, remembered to pack separate food for my no-wheat-no-milk eaters, and had everything packed up and ready to go well before departure time.

And then I remembered:  costumes.  We have no costumes!  We're leaving this house in 45 minutes and we have NO kids' costumes anywhere in sight.

Thank goodness for the Internet.  Five minutes later I'd researched and scribbled down several ideas that we could create in less than half an hour, including "raining cats and dogs," a cardboard box, and a bag of blue jelly beans (I have blue balloons) and offered these options as the kids were getting off the bus.  I needn't have bothered.  The oldest dug out a child-sized military uniform I thought I had given away, the middle one found his pirate hat and a light saber, and the youngest wanted to go as Thomas Train -- so he wore his Thomas t-shirt.  Hey presto, in 5 minutes I had a soldier, a pirate, and a train, and I was left standing in the hall with my head spinning.  Who needs moms?

And, as always, we had a fabulous time:  SweeTarts were had by mom, bad chocolate was had by kids, and my soldier and a visiting Hermione Granger duelled all over the patio outside the consular section.  I think my soldier got the worst of it:  Hermione worked an expelliarmus charm on his boots which flew off in different directions and Hermione's cohort (a pink fairy, if I recall correctly) made off with his machine gun.  The pirate raced to the rescue and kept tripping over his light saber.  The little one pitched in by running eagerly behind the rest of the troop repeating the distress call he'd heard the soldier give:  "May Gay!  May Gay!" he shouted into a tiny sword he was using as a walkie talkie.

My husband and I sat on a bench, made sure no one ran into traffic, and ate a fairly peaceful supper of sandwiches and carrot sticks while a tribe of tiny Indians, vampires, fairy princesses and one Dora the Explorer crawled around our feet and we visited with their parents. Our kids gorged themselves on chocolate on the way home, and we all tumbled into bed and exhausted, hyper, sticky mess.

You know, in the face of that kind of fun, even Scrooge has to give in: Maybe next year I'll trick or treat for my own SweeTarts.

Tatooine is in My Bedroom

The Saga Continues...

The Jedi warrior and the Sith lord sat across the table from one another, each eyeing the other warily.

"I shot you with my electricity!" The Sith proclaimed triumphantly.

"I blocked it with my light saber!" Countered the Jedi.

With a quick flick of the wrist, "I destroyed your lightsaber!"

"But I have another!"  The Jedi pulled it out of his pocket and brandished it over his cereal bowl.  "And I shot you with my electricity!"

"Mom, Jedis don't have electricity!  Tell him he can't use electricity!" The Sith lord whined to the Jedi Master.

"But Yoda used electricity," the Jedi countered quickly.

"No, he only shot Count Duku's electricity back at him.  Pow!  I got you with my electricity when you weren't looking!"  The Sith cackled.

The Jedi fell on the floor.  "Ugh, I'm dead."  Springing up.  "Can I have some more cereal, mom?"

And so the battle raged among the stars.....

A Belated Virus

I never get sick.  Never.  Well, almost never.  But anyway, it's so rare, and I'm so clueless about little things like "symptoms" that I usually don't even know there's a problem until I'm about ready to be admitted to the ICU.  Once in Germany I got a sinus infection that was so bad that when I finally went to the doctor (two weeks after onset of "symptoms" -- which included the conviction that my head was going to explode), she had to give me anthrax antibiotics to get rid of it.  She said she could have written a paper on my sinus infection.

I feel so special.

But obviously I don't feel any brighter -- I'm sick again and it's taken me a while to realize it.  Let's say a week.  "Symptoms"?  Low grade fever was a clue which I more or less dismissed -- I mean, who takes a temperature of 100 degrees seriously?  Really.  Inability to breathe -- temporary, I'm sure.  Head feels like it will explode at any moment?  It's just stress.  Probably.  My three-year-old is definitely sick and he looks like I feel?  Coincidence.  

It was my housekeeper who clued me in:  "How do you feel?  You look terrible.  Are you sick?"  Hmm.  Maybe?

It's not that I don't feel terrible, I just never make the connection between "feel terrible" and "sick."  Somehow, "sick" is a condition so exalted I think it couldn't possibly apply to me.  I mean, when you're sick, you get to go to bed, even if you're the Mom, and no one can come in the bedroom and say things like "Honey, the bacon's on fire," and reasonably expect you to get up and deal with it.  When you're sick, you're sick, and someone else deals with the minor household emergencies.

This all comes, you know, from being the daughter of a veterinarian.  I'm not sure I ever went to a people doctor when I was a kid; whenever any of us would get sick, Dad would make a diagnosis and pull out the cat antibiotics:  "If it's good enough for house cats it's good enough for our kids."  We kids weren't exactly sure what would have happened had we needed, say, surgery.  Consequently, we all learned to ignore any "symptoms" which might have needed "treatment."

But my Dad is safely on another continent; his license to get prescription medication (even for cats) has expired; and goldarnit, I feel terrible.

I'm sick, and I'm going to bed.  The fire extinguisher is hanging on the wall next to the back door, if you need it for anything.

Mom, are you SURE there's a volcano here?

Poas Volcano -- the largest caldera in the world, according to the literature from the national park (check it out and let me know if it's true!).  This is what we saw when we visited a few weeks ago.  We could hear the volcano, hissing and spitting; we could smell the volcano; we could feel the volcano -- that's not all fog below Benjamin; a good bit of it is warm steam.  But we couldn't see the volcano.  I'm taking it on faith that we were actually in the right place.

But, the kids had a good run around (Don't get too close to the edge, dear!) and there was a great gift shop waiting for us at trail's end -- the kids got M&M's; I got a painting -- so a good time was had by all.  And now we have an excuse to go back!

(P.S.  Apparently I haven't figured out how to post a picture inside a text box.  Hmmm.  If you want to see a perplexed and steamy Benjamin, just head to http://kellyarmstrong.pnn.com/8583-home-sweet-home .)

In the "Warms the Cockles of your Heart" Category

Yesterday, I was sitting on the couch with Benjamin, my three-year-old, who wasn't feeling well, and he snuggled up to me, gave me a perfect three-year-old hug and said, "You're my sweetie friend."

This morning, we were snugging in bed (around 0-dark-thirty) and Benjamin started patting my arm.  

"Why are you patting my arm?" I asked sleepily.

"Because I love you so much," was his sweet reply.

BUT this is the same child who, just this evening, rummaged through the "out of reach" medicine cabinet, opened a child-proof bottle of decongestant, and poured himself a medicine cup full before I discovered him.

Maybe the cutie-pie stuff is really just a front to cover for his other, more nefarious activities?

The Sun is Down!

With these cheery words, my three-year-old snuggled up to me in bed this morning.  "No it's not," I said sleepily as I tucked him in under the blankets next to me.

"Yes, it is, it's down!" He repeats, mashing his nose against my face and giving me a sloppy kiss.

"No, it's not down, it's up.  It's morning," I groan back, suspecting that it may not, really, be decently morning yet.

At which point he throws his arm over my neck, whispers sincerely, "Oh, I wuv you, Mommy."  Then he bounds up, flips on the light switch over my bed -- including the halogen spotlights directly over head that shoot light like a physical force into my brain.  "Now the sun is up!"  He shouts and runs gleefully out of the room.

I look at my watch.  5:55 a.m. on a Saturday.

Why can't kids be cute at a decent hour?

"I Barfed on Dad!"

Overheard - Unfortunately, At My House

Photo: The source of all entropy in the universe, and most of the chaos in my house, snippets of which are posted below.

"It's only 4:30 in the morning.  Go back to bed. "

"If you can't kill each other nicely, you'll have to go inside."

"Please don't disembowel yourself in my kitchen."

"Why is there a bike in my living room?"

"Why are there two bikes in my living room?"

"How many bikes are there in my living room??!"

"Who tied my cabinet closed with dental floss?"

"Who left an entire bag of chocolate chips scattered on the floor in my pantry?"

"Mom!  I found Benjamin on the skateboard about to roll headfirst down the hill and crash into the fence!  I got the skateboard!"  (Screams of a thwarted three-year-old in the background.)

"Jonathan, those clothes were to give away, not to make into a teepee in the backyard!"

"No sticks in the house."

"No rocks in the house."

"Get these sticks and rocks out of my house right now!"

"No legos in the bathtub."

"No army guys in the bathtub."

"Dog-pile snuggle!!"

"I love you!"

This Too Shall Pass. I Hope.

Skinny

Although I don't personally recommend this to anyone -- go have your tonsils removed with red hot pliers, it'd be more fun -- one unintended benefit of a sick-for-nearly-three-weeks family is that I have lost quite a bit of weight.  Maybe as much as eight pounds.  When you're feeling awful and your kids are feeling awful and there's nothing to eat in the house, it's just more fun to go to bed hungry than to actually fix something to eat.  I'm not really sure what my kids ate the last couple of weeks; they all look healthy enough.

Anyway, I am now able to fit into a pair of pants my Mom gave me two years ago that I have never, until now, been able to even zip up.  (Why did I take them?  One of those inexplicable female mysteries.)  Now, not only can I zip them up, they're so loose they're in danger of falling off without a belt.

A skeleton, I am not.  I am still quite "healthy."  However, this silver lining has shown up at a perfect time:  the Marine Corps Birthday Ball (THE social event of the year for the US Embassy) is this Saturday and, again for female reasons unfathomable, the only formal dress I have is actually a full size too small for me.  I bought it KNOWING it was a full size too small.  I decided to buy it while standing in the dressing room recovering from a claustrophobe's panic attack at having to slip the skin-tight sheath (it's not supposed to be skin-tight) over my head and then not being able to breathe because it was so tight.

Yeah.  Not too bright.

So every year a few weeks before the Marine Ball I go into panic mode and end up spending the evening of the ball sitting up very straight, not moving or breathing so I don't split a seam in my much-too-small dress.

I tried my dress on the other day and it was loose.  Loose!  There will be enough room in it this year that I can even wear hose!

And, when I modeled it for the boys, I got a chorus of genuine and enthusiastic WOW!s.  I told them they'd make great husbands some day.

Gotta run -- I need to find my belt before my pants fall off!

Home from the Hospital!

We're home and healthy now!!  And the best part about the last night in the hospital:  the nurses forgot to give Benjamin one dose of his medicine in the middle of the night, so we actually Slept Through The Night!  It was delicious.

We saw the doctor today and he gave us the OK to send Jonathan and Timothy to school tomorrow.  Thank heavens.  There were three F5 tornadoes whirling through my house today.  I'll be glad for them to whirl at school a bit tomorrow -- I have a feeling the school is slightly more indestructible than my house.

And now, of course, I seem to have The Virus:  I woke up this morning with aches, chills, and lungs that hurt whenever I breathe.  Ibuprofen held everything at bay enough that my husband (who has visitors in from Washington, natch) could go to work.  Hopefully this ploy will work tomorrow as well.

Thanks for all your prayers and well-wishes!

Warthog Flu. With Tusks.

Something new seems to have swept through our family in the wake of last week's illness.  Or perhaps it's a continuation.  It's hard to tell.  We thought for a couple of days that it might be the swine flu -- it had all the classic earmarks:  sudden onset of high fever, respiratory distress, extreme tiredness....  Benjamin and Jonathan both had it; mysteriously, Timothy (who can get sick from just looking at a picture of a rainy day) seemed perfectly healthy.  Jonathan 'only' had 102-103 fever and chest pains.  But it was Benjamin who really worried me.  He woke up Thursday morning (the day I had planned to send him to school) with 102 fever and labored breathing, both of which continued intermittently all day.

By Friday morning, we were well ready to take him to a doctor, even at the risk of infecting people at the doctor's office with whatever it was he had.  Dr. Herrera took one look at him, gathered up his stethoscope and said, "We're moving.  I have to admit him to the emergency room."

Apparently, he was worse off than even we suspected.  I think that when you see an ER doctor go pale and the orderlies break into a run of their own accord, things are bad.  Everybody in the ER went pale started running when Benjamin got there.

Diagnosis:  Croup caused by some (as yet) unknown virus.  But croup that had come within 1/8 inch of completely closing off his airway.

So, I'm blogging at the moment from his hospital room.  We spent last night here and will spend at least tonight here, and frankly, I'd be glad with a 3rd night because this virus he has makes him sick for two days, gives him two days off, and then resurfaces.

Today is a 'day off.'  He has no fever; he's breathing AND talking today and quite cheerful.  They took him off the IV at lunch and reduced his oxygen and inhaled medicine to a minimal amount.  He's eating like a horse and starting to get bored.

I am starting to get psychotic.  Knowing that he seems to be heading straight out of the woods has given me the leisure to become grumpy about other things.  Things like:  in a hospital, where you go to get well, it is IMPOSSIBLE to get any type of quality sleep.  Between 8 p.m. last night and 5 a.m. this morning, we averaged about 30 minutes of sleep per hour in the face of malfunctioning equipment (resulting in klaxon alarms sounding repeatedly in my ear.  Once it was because the IV machine battery had run down and it needed to be plugged in.  Took two nurses to diagnose that problem.  Sigh.); interruptions at shift change; the obligatory medicine and temperature interruptions; and someone delivering the NEWSPAPER at 6 a.m!

There's no way for the nurse's station to hear the alarms and malfunctioning equipment, which means that I spent a good deal of the night shuffling down the hall barefoot in my pajamas, bed hair sticking out into several dimensions, trying to think how to say in Spanish that the IV machine is malfunctioning.  Again.  And wondering if I'll be able to understand their response.

So, you can see that if I'm complaining about such petty things, Benjamin is really doing better.

But, when I thought it was the swine flu, and I was listening to him struggle for every breath, I remember thinking:  if ONLY we'd been able to get that vaccination.  I don't know where you stand on the H1N1 vaccination, but this particular scare has left me in no doubt.  It is scary to not know if your child will ever take another breath.  Literally.  And if it comes down to a question of wondering whether this will, literally, be your kid's last breath, you want to know, whatever happens, that you did everything you could to make sure he'd keep breathing.

So that, from a formerly-panicked mom is my plug for getting the swine flu vaccine.

Sick, sick, sick, sick, sick, sick, sick.

But we don't think it's the Swine Flu.  More like Warthog Flu.  Or maybe Wild Boar Flu.  With tusks.

The little one seems to have brought it home from preschool, last Wednesday.  Since then (five days now), he's had off and on fever of about 103, BAD headaches, tummy pains that made him spend a lot of time screaming (And were bad enough that I called his dad home from work to take us to the emergency room.  Then he got better.  Doesn't it always happen that way?).  Oh, and some vomiting for good measure.  He's also been taking 3-5 hour naps.  That part isn't so bad.

We took him to the doctor last week, she said it was a "respiratory virus" (odd, since respiratory problems are the only problems he HASN'T had).  So, we did do our duty as parents.

I came down with a facsimile of this on Friday, spending all day asleep in bed, waking up only long enough to hit "Play" on the computer in bed next to me for the next episode of Backyardigans downloaded from iTunes.  Thank God for iTunes!!

And thank God for a husband who can cook, clean, and take care of small children while his wife drools into her coffee.

And, so, that's the kind of week-end we had.  The other two came down with fevers on Saturday, none of us went to church (despite the fact I was supposed to have been teaching Sunday school!), and all three boys are home today, and maybe tomorrow as well.

Swine flu?  The swine flu doesn't scare me.  I've been bowled over by a rampaging wild boar -- what terror can a standard pig possibly hold for me?!

Cookies? Cookies!!!

I woke this morning to the delicious, but rather disturbing, smell of chocolate chip cookies baking in the oven.  Extra vanilla.  Why disturbing?  Because the oldest person stirring in the house to that point was nine years old, and the youngest has been known to alter the time-space continuum simply by walking through a room.  I really wasn't sure what to expect when I walked into the kitchen.

Yesterday evening, I had come upon Jonathan in the kitchen with flour, butter, sugar, and an electric mixer spread across several acres of my kitchen.  "I'm making cookies!"  He announced.  In response to my worried look, he reassured me:  "I'm even following the recipe this time."  We have had several batches of I-made-it-up-myself-and-cooked-it-in-the-microwave.-Is-a-cup-of-vanilla-too-much? cookies which made the aftermath of a nuclear war look like the Garden of Eden.

But, sure enough, he was following a recipe, so I helped him find a few of the more esoteric ingredients (shortening) and gave him a few pointers (The beaters tend to fall out of this mixer so be careful), and pointedly left the room.

Yes, I know, I'm still in shock myself -- leave an easily-distracted nine-year-old in the kitchen with five pounds of flour and a hot oven?  But one of my main goals for my boys is for them to be good cooks, who like to cook, who can plan a menu, shop, and make a lovely meal.  Because I want my daughters-in-law to like me.  Maybe that way I'll get to see my grandchildren occasionally.  I like my mother-in-law, and I've taken her grandchildren to the other side of the earth.  I know the power daughters-in-law have.

Anyway, back to the cookies.  Jonathan made a very passable batch of cookies.  In fact, except for the fact that I forgot to tell him the vanilla was double strength -- it really did taste like he'd put a cup of vanilla in the cookies -- they were nearly flawless.

But it was still surprising, and a bit disconcerting, to know that he'd turned on the oven with Benjamin unsupervised in the house.  Jonathan, I'm not worried about.  Benjamin, I'm always worried about.

Jonathan confessed, with a cheerful grin, as soon as I came down the stairs, that he had forgotten to take the cookies out of the oven and they were burned to a crisp.  "I call them hockey pucks!"  He announced proudly.  "Benjamin wouldn't even eat them."

I checked the kitchen, and there they were, marble-sized, blackened hockey pucks, still in the pan, still smoking a bit.  Yup, looks like my boys are on their way to becoming excellent cooks -- just like their mom.

At least he remembered to turn off the oven.  In fact, maybe he's turning out to be a better cook than I am.

It's 8 a.m.; Do You Know Where Your Toddler Is?

My husband and I slept until 8 a.m. this Saturday.  It was a blissful experience.  Not since we started having children 9 years 5 months and 6 days ago (but who's counting?) have both of us been able to sleep past about 5:30 or 6:00 a.m.  It was a moment to be savored.

Unfortunately, it was the telephone which woke us.  Telephone calls at 8 a.m on a Saturday morning are rarely good news.

"Hi!  This is (our new next door neighbor, also Americans from the Embassy.  They have a daughter Benjamin's age.).  My husband saw Benjamin wandering around outside this morning and brought him home.  He's been here about an hour.  Is it alright if we feed him breakfast?"

WHAT?!?!

As you might expect, this little tidbit of news rocketed me right into full wakefulness.  After I had apologized that Benjamin had escaped, thanked her profusely for taking care of him, and clawed my way down from the ceiling, I asked myself:  How did this happen?  Did we forget to put the chain on (a chain which, I might add, my six-foot-tall self has to reach UP to unlock)?  Was the door somehow unlocked?  Where had we gone wrong?  How could he have escaped?

He's a Jedi knight, that's how he escaped:  he took his toy light saber, extended it to its full length, and -- without the slightest bit of trouble -- flicked the chain right out of its track.

The fact of his escape also explains how we were able to sleep in so late:  No Benjamin = no noise, no screaming, no crashing thuds or minor earthquakes, no one jumping on our heads = sleep.

This episode was not nearly as serious as it could have been:  we live in a tiny, gated community in which we know almost all of our neighbors.  The night guard is extremely trustworthy and knows Benjamin and knows where he belongs.  Approximately every 30 minutes guards from the Embassy come up to our house to make a visual inspection of our home and the condominio.  Short of tripping, falling, and knocking a tooth out, there's not much trouble Benjamin can get into here.  But doesn't it make your blood run cold just the same to think of a 4-year-old roaming the world alone in his pajamas?  My blood is frozen solid.

We went out that very afternoon and purchased a lock.  And now at night, every night (and sometimes during the day), we bolt the door, put the chain on, and lock the chain to itself so it can't be removed without a key, which I keep up so high even lightsaber boy can't reach it and so well hidden I can't find it most of the time.

We're also putting in a request to the Embassy to have a deadbolt-with-key installed and we're going to start using our malfunctioning-and-the-Embassy-has-no-idea-how-to-repair-it alarm which goes off right by my husband's head whenever the door is opened:  I'd much rather be woken up at 2 a.m. to a mechanical voice stating "Zone 5 in alarm" than at 8 a.m. by a kind neighbor on the telephone.

I Hate Mornings

SLAM! (my bedroom door closing as the four year old comes in at0600 on a Saturday morning.)

Benjamin: "Mom, the boys are playing."

Me:  "Uhnh." (I'm not at my best in the morning)

SLAM! (my bedroom door closing as the four year old leaves at 0601)

SLAM! (my bedroom door closing as the four year old comes in at 0605)

Benjamin:  "Mom, Jonathan yelled at Timothy."

Me:  "Uhnh."

SLAM! (my bedroom closing as the four year old leaves at 0606)

SLAM! (my bedroom door closing as the four year old comes in at 0608)

Benjamin:  "Mom, are you awake yet?"

Me:  "Uhnh."

SLAM! (my bedroom closing as the four year old leaves at 0609)

SLAM! (my bedroom door closing as the four year old comes in at 0612)

Benjamin:  "Mom, are we going to the volcano today?"

Me:  "Uhnh."

SLAM! (my bedroom closing as the four year old leaves at 0613)

SLAM! (my bedroom door closing as the four year old comes in at 0617)

Benjamin:  "Mom, I made my bed."

Me:  "Uhnh???"

SLAM! (my bedroom closing as the four year old leaves at 0618)

SLAM! (my bedroom door closing as the four year old comes in at 0622)

Benjamin:  "Mom, I got dressed in my lizard shirt."

Me:  "Uhnh???"

SLAM! (my bedroom closing as the four year old leaves at 0623)

SLAM! (my bedroom door closing as the four year old comes in at 0626)

Benjamin:  "Mom, I got my backpack ready."

Me:  (Cracking one eye to see him wearing his bright yellow traveling backpack) "Uhnh?!"

SLAM! (my bedroom closing as the four year old leaves at 0627)

Groan.  Creak.  Sigh.  (My husband getting out of bed at 0628.)

We’re going to Arenal Volcano today.  I think Benjamin is ready to go.  NOW.

But, he did make his bed (????!!!) and he did get dressed – he even showed me proudly that he remembered to put on underwear – so how can I really complain?

Gotta run.  Benjamin’s got the keys and he’s headed for the car.

Light Saber Battle with Squirrel

I stepped outside today to put the trash by the curb, and was startled by some movement in the bushes by our house.  It was a squirrel.  A cute, fuzzy little squirrel with a black body and red feet.  Awwww, how sweet, I thought as I watched it scamper and cavort innocently across my carport.

Then, as I turned to go back in my house, I saw this cute little furry creature headed straight for my open front door.  “No!”  I cried.  “No, you unmentionable little rodent, keep your filthy self out of my house!”

But this was a Costa Rican squirrel; it didn’t speak English.  It ran inside.  And a black cloud obscured my vision as I imagined the infinite number of horrible things a terrified squirrel could do to the government-issued furniture I would be responsible for paying for if it felt trapped in my house.  I recovered just in time to watch it disappear into the partly-open coat closet by the front door.

“Ah ha!  I’ve got you now,” I chuckled, rubbing my hands together in glee.  And I closed the door to the closet.  Then my four year old and I set about constructing a barricade:  a large box, a large basket, a rolled up carpet holding everything together for good measure.  And Benjamin standing behind all this waving his hands, making noise like only a four year old can, and doing everything possible to look terrifying to a squirrel.  There was only one place for this rodent of questionable parentage to go:  out.  I was sure.

I was wrong.  Rather than head for the vast, wide-open spaces of the great outdoors, just a few tantalizing feet away to the right through my still-open front door, it turned left, squeezed through an invisible and microscopic hole, ran between Benjamin’s feet, and into the guest bathroom.  Good thing we didn’t have any guests.

I picked up a light saber lying conveniently nearby and tried a little Skywalker action on the rodent.  He was unimpressed, and continued to skulk in the dark recesses of my bathroom underneath the sink.  I’m guessing if I can’t look threatening to a tiny mammal, I have zero future guarding and defending the galaxy as a Jedi knight.

And then I came to my senses and I was glad I was not a Jedi:  the bathroom door opens at the foot of the stairs.  Were our visitor to actually run out of the bathroom, his track record indicated he’d head straight upstairs.  I put the light saber away.

I considered building a second containment barricade, but Benjamin was showing a decided interest in staying as far from our furry visitor as possible.  I couldn’t count on him to be scary again.  And besides, look how well our first attempt had worked.  We’re just not scary enough for squirrels.

And once again, visions of a terrified rodent loose in my house rose before my eyes.  And this time, in the background, I could hear the Administrative Counselor intoning, “You are a dependent spouse, not an animal control specialist.  Why didn’t you call the Embassy in the first place?”  As he hands me a bill for $3,000 to repair the furniture and the holes the workmen have had to knock in the wall to evict the squirrel.

I locked the squirrel in the bathroom.

So whom, exactly, does one call to remove a squirrel from government quarters?  Not my husband, who had thoughtlessly left for lunch just moments before I phoned.  Not the Office of Defense Cooperation, which was the first wrong number I got.  Not the Housing Coordinator, which was the next wrong number I got – although she and I did have a very nice chat anyway.  On my fourth try I found Maintenance, who sent a lovely young man over with a stick and a blanket to battle our fierce little visitor. 

Now that an official Embassy representative was present, I didn’t mind a bit if the squirrel decided to take off upstairs.  So when the nice young man suggested I could scare the squirrel out with a stick while he captured it in a blanket, I just smiled serenely, completely unaffected by the sheer madness of the plan.  I even thought of suggesting I could use the light saber instead – it was a bit longer.  I still had visions of a squirrel burrowing into my mattress.  But now, the Embassy would foot the bill.  Ha ha.  Burrow, you furry little rodent!  Go ahead and burrow!!

Of course, as soon as the nice young man opened the bathroom door, the squirrel scooted right out the front door at near light speed.  I heard the little sonic boom as it passed me. 

And the young man and I smiled and laughed, and in his eyes I could read “silly female” as he looked at me, and in my eyes he should have read “If anything went wrong it would have been your fault!”

Oh Frabjous Day!! Callooh! Callay!

She chortled in her joy!

A friend has loaned me her breadmaker!!  Come to my arms my beamish.... friend.

Well, it doesn't have quite the same ring as the original, but it certainly captures my feelings.  

I was working hard to re-tool my kitchen (and myself) to make lots and lots of bread without a bread maker, and had already produced a pretty decent loaf.  Only problem: the bread pans I have must be for 4 lb loaves of bread, because my dough, event though it rose beautifully, more or less just puddled in this huge container.  The loaf turned out about as high as a soda cracker is wide.  Somehow, just not quite as satisfying.  And with children who Refuse to Eat (even imaginary) Crusts, well, not a lot of bread was actually getting inside anyone.

So, thank you, Jeanne!!

Callooh!  Callay!!

It's a Sad, Sad, Sad, Sad Day

There is moaning and wailing; weeping and groaning.  Even some gnashing of teeth and rending of clothes (well, I got flour on myself, does that count?):  my breadmaker died last night.

I am well aware that in most households, this would qualify for a brief "Darn," and life would move on.

In our house, life has come to a screeching halt.  Because I use this breadmaker nearly every day.  It is my lifeline; it is my hope; it is my only succour in times of screaming; and the only thing standing between me and screaming-meemie children.

You may remember that two of my boys can't eat wheat and that, consequently, I have to make all our own bread.  You may also recall that these two boys are extremely picky eaters (to the point of occasionally and uncontrollably barfing on Mom to remind her that they Still Do Not Like Green Beans.  We skated real close to that territory tonight, as a matter of fact.); and their main sources of nutrition for two meals each day are toast and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  They have to eat what I fix and be happy at supper, but that's the only battle I have strength enough to face every day.  I'm good with toast and PB&J.

So, when I say my breadmaker has died, it is cause for sackcloth and ashes.

I promptly wrote the company and asked about replacement parts.  Guess what?  This model was discontinued FIVE YEARS before I bought it fifteen years ago in an overseas military PX.

You have a point:  15 years is a long time for any appliance to last.  But my husband's 20+ year-old toaster oven is still working; why not my breadmaker??  Why couldn't it have given me some warning:  flashed a little light; emitted some smoke for a few days; or treated us to the sound of screeching gears?  No, it just died.  Abruptly.  And I shed a little tear.

There is one light at the end of the long, dark tunnel until we can get a new breadmaker:  Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day.  And they're not kidding.  Check it out.  And, dang it's good.  But Artisan Bread does not make good American PB&J sandwiches.  So I see a lot of trial, even more error, and lots of hockey pucks in our immediate future until I get a new recipe worked out.

So, what did I do with the dough the machine was kneading when it conked?  Stuck it in a pan, let it rise, and turned it into a very respectable looking hockey puck.  I fed it to the children for breakfast this morning.  They started to scream, but took one look at me and the flames shooting from my eyes and the ends of my hair and meekly gnawed their toast.

Bread anyone?  

I thought not.

Talent Show

The boys' school had a talent show on Friday night:  planned, organized, and completely run by the students themselves.  They also organized a bake sale and an art show and sale to raise money for their respective classes' community service projects.  Pretty amazing when you realize this school only goes up to fifth grade!

Oldest didn't feel he had a talent he wanted to share (his karate is rusty and a discussion of Relativity and Quantum Mechanics might have put most of us to sleep), but the middle one wanted to read a poem.  He wouldn't read it at home.  He wouldn't practice.  He kept stumbling over some of the longer words.  I was in a panic for him.  I know about talent shows.  I know how cruel they can be.  But he was sure he wanted to do this, so I gave him a lipstick kiss (at his request:  I put on lipstick and then gave him a big smoochie kiss on the cheek.  The boys loved these when they were in preschool; I guess they felt like they had a bit of mom with them.  Anyway, I gave one to Timothy.  He liked it.)

So, they call his name and he walks out under the bright lights in front of about 400 people.  He's only about three feet tall and tiny; they had trouble getting the mike to go down that low.  My blood pressure is through the roof, my heart is pounding.

And cool as a cucumber, Timothy starts to read in his perfect, clear, little boy voice, slurring the S's a bit in his efforts not to say "sh":  "True Story" by Shel Silverstein.   (From my faulty memory):

I got up this morning went out for a ride

But some wild outlaws chased me and shot me in the side

So I went into a wildcat's cave to find a place to hide

But some pirates found me and soon they had me tied

To a pole (I almost cried)

But a mermaid came and freed me and begged to be my bride.....

And at this point, Timothy turned his cheek to the audience to show the kiss I'd given him, pointed at it, and chirped out, with absolutely perfect comedic timing:  "And she kissed me!"

And the audience went wild!  The laughed so loud and so long and so hard, I wasn't sure Timothy would be able to finish.  But then, again, with perfect timing, he waited until the laughter had died down to exactly the right place, and started reading again.

And the poem ends (after a broken engagement with a mermaid, encounters with jungles, water snakes, and cannibals):

And an eagle swooped me up and through the air we flied,

And he dropped me into a boiling lake a thousand miles wide.

And you'll never guess what I did then:  I DIED!

And of course I didn't get any pictures because we'd forgotten the camera.  Sigh.  I'm a D- mom this week.

Oh, the crowd loved him again at the end.  I think he was proud of himself.

And I was actually, quite proud of the kids who ran and attended the talent show:  EVERYONE, no matter how awful, got a vigorous, healthy, encouraging round of applause, led every time by the kids.  We had to leave before it was over, but I heard today that one of the final performers, a 5th grade girl who was supposed to sing a solo, burst into tears with stage fright at the critical moment.

But, instead of a teacher coming to usher her comfortingly off stage, several girls from her class jumped down out of the audience, ran to stand with her, and from behind her back encouraged the audience to give her a round of applause.  And then she finished the song in a blaze of glory.

What a great evening.  What nice kids.

Batman's Secret Identity

Imagine "Willow" meets the Caped Crusader.  That's what's living in my house this week.

Benjamin got -- at his express request from the absolute best most amazing dad in the world -- a complete head-to-toe Batman costume:  Mask, gauntlets, cape, utility belt (with, I'm informed, a container of Shark Repellent Bat Spray), and full-body black suit.

He hasn't taken it off in two days.  We've persuaded him that even Bruce Wayne wears PJ's to bed, so at least he's not sleeping in it.  And he doesn't wear it to preschool, but he does take it in a backpack.  He even talked me into letting him wear the mask and utility belt at the grocery store.  You can imagine the looks we got.  In Costa Rica.

I'm starting to forget what his face looks like:  he eats with his mask on; plays with his mask on; watches Batman re-runs on the computer (another gift from Dad) with his mask on; and yesterday, he even took a bath with his mask on.

This is a new thing for us.  My two older boys are a bit.... weird.... For them, "dress up" consists of either coating themselves in bubbles in the bathtub or cutting large chunks out of their hair.  We're beginning to suspect that Benjamin is the most "normal" of the bunch, but from where we've been with the other two, "normal" looks a bit "strange."

But oh so cute! as he runs down the street with his tiny cape flapping in the wind, tiny bat ears sticking up over his head, tiny bare feet pattering on the asphalt, going off (as he says) to look for his friend Robin.

Gotham City bad guys, watch out:  Batman is coming for you!

How to Host the World's Best Kids' Birthday Party

I just threw the world's best, most awesome, wonderful turning-four-years-old birthday party.

We had NONE of the following:

1. Games

2.  Ice cream (we're allergic anyway)

3.  Matching plates, cute napkins, or theme tablecloths

4.  Balloons

5.  Goody bags

6.  Screaming four year olds

7.  Loud music (a fixture at parties here)

8.  Pinatas (another fixture)

9.  Dancing (my least favorite fixture.  And yes, for toddlers too.)

10.  Pizza (which I would have had to make)

11.  Expensive "place to have birthday" rental

12.  Stress.

We DID have:

1.  Three families my whole family loves (with nice, non-screaming, non-mean, non-fighting kids.  Eleven of them, ranging in age from 10 to 4.)

2.  Cake

3.  Candles

4.  Heartfelt rendition of "Happy Birthday" in at least two languages

5.  Fun

We may have even remembered to take a picture or two.  My new four-year-old was delighted at the amount of attention paid him (20 people in our house in his honor!!), the cake, and getting to blow out candles.  After that little ceremony, the kids ran and played all over the house (there was a great deal of Tropical Rain outside or we would have shooed them into the street), and the adults sat and visited over a glass of wine.  Since I had invited everyone for "Kaffee und Kuchen" (the German ritual of afternoon coffee & cake), I didn't even have to cook a meal.

I had an AWESOME afternoon.

Best of all, so did my not-such-a-baby-anymore!!

Happy Mother's Day to Me!

Some positively brilliant person at our church scheduled the week-end-long women's retreat at the beach for this coming week-end.  I'm going.

I'm driving with a friend and we are planning to leave the house at 8 a.m. tomorrow, to arrive around 10 a.m.  The retreat does not start until 7 p.m., and we're not even allowed to check in -- not even with the preferred membership status my friend has -- until 1 p.m.  We don't care:  we're mothers of small children and we're going to make every minute of silence count!

The other great thing is that Costa Rican mothers day is in August.  And it's a national holiday, so I'm set for this year!

I'm going to miss my husband and my kids. I'm going to miss getting snuggles and sloppy kisses on Sunday.  But I'm planning to work very hard to make up for that the rest of the year!

Easter Sunday

Nine years ago, today was Easter Sunday.  

Amazing, huh?  How do I remember?  Am I one of those calendar date savants?  Nope, I'm just a mom:  I remember because I was in labor and on the way to the hospital in the wee hours of that morning.

Predictably, we got pulled over for speeding.  In sight of the hospital.

The policeman swaggered up to the car, "Excuse me sir, is there a reason you were going 55 mph in a 35 zone?"

"Well, actually, officer, my wife is in labor."

Somehow it sounded too much like a movie for the guy to believe my husband. "You're not serious?!"

"Damn straight!" I growled from the passenger seat.

He took one look at my bared teeth, shouted "Follow me!" and leapt into his patrol car, lights flashing, and escorted us to the hospital, about 400 yards away.

Our firstborn was born an hour later.

Once the world had stopped shifting around me and the profound truth of my new life had settled in a bit, my first coherent thought, after glancing at the clock and seeing it was 'only' 3:30 a.m., was:  "Oh, good!  We can still make it to church!"

Then I promptly fell asleep.

Somehow, I didn't feel like I'd missed Easter that year.

Barfing

When your six-year-old tells you in the middle of church that he's going to barf, take him seriously.

I didn't take him seriously enough.  We didn't quite make it out of the sanctuary.

Sigh.

Resurrection Eggs (r)

For those of you who are interested, here's a link to the FamilyLife website where the Resurrection Eggs (r) are sold.  

I love them because not only are they a great, visual way to tell the Easter story to kids, they also give me the power to appropriate a common cultural symbol (the Easter egg) for MY OWN PURPOSES!!!  Bwah ha ha ha!!!  

Now, when my kids see an Easter egg, they don't just think "Candy, egg hunt, Easter bunny!"  They think, "Oh, great!  The story about Jesus!  Would you tell it again, Mom?"  I know this because every year when Easter eggs start to appear, that's exactly what they say to me.  Over and over and over and over.

I like that.

Easter (Whoosh, there it goes!)

I love Easter.  It is by far my favorite holiday of the year:  all the fun of Christmas with none of the stress.  I mean, there's stuff to decorate, fun traditions, great candy, extraordinary religious significance, and much better weather than Christmas.  And no one expects Easter cards.

In our family growing up we used to make Easter nests, not very religious but hugely fun -- grass "nests" decorated with whatever flowers were blooming.  My mom would then fill these with tiny gifts and candy on Easter morning.  I've carried on this tradition with my kids off and on depending on what kind of foliage was available where we were.  Great foliage here, but completely dropped the ball on that one.  Did I mention I forgot the gifts, too?

Oh, well, that's OK because the kids asked to dye eggs.  That's fun and easy!  Dropped the ball on that one too.  Until yesterday evening, we were down to 2 (brown) eggs in the house and nothing that even remotely resembled egg dye. 

Easter candy?  Well, a friend gave us some for the Easter egg hunt SHE planned for today.  We at least managed to attend that, but having forgotten everything else, it made my Easter feel rather lopsided.

I've also got a great collection of handpainted Easter eggs that I picked up in Germany and Croatia that are to be hung on a flowering branch during the Easter season.  Oops, they're still packed away.

Usually the best part of the lead up to Easter is the "Resurrection Eggs" we have:  a collection of 12 plastic eggs, each containing a different tiny something that connects to the Easter story:  a tiny donkey (for Palm Sunday); a tiny crown of thorns, a tiny pair of dice.... etc.  The last egg, of course, is empty, just like Jesus' tomb on Easter morning.  My kids LOVE these and would happily go through them every night for weeks as their bedtime story.  They're on top of the bookshelf.  I remembered ONCE to get them out.

And surely we did Easter crafts and projects to remind us of the significance of this season?  Nope.  Nada.

I taught Sunday school this morning at church (sixteen 3-5 year olds!!!), and so surely there was an opportunity to remember the reason for Easter there?  Well, the lesson was on King AHAB.  Hmmm.  Can YOU make a connection???  Me neither.

I just don't know what happened this year, but Easter somehow slipped up on us and slipped right by and I hardly knew it.  I'm going to blame it on moving to a new country and being sick last week.  (But I'm afraid it may be something more significant than that!)  In fact, this Easter may have even surpassed the year my oldest set his hair on fire during an Easter Eve church service.  Didn't really think it could get much worse than that!  (Wearmanyhats, eat your heart out!) 

But, as I was reminded at church today, these sorts of little "lapses" (and others much too big to mention) are sort of the reason that Easter Sunday is such a big deal:  proof that there's Someone who knows me inside out, and loves me anyway.  Thank goodness.

He is risen!

He is risen indeed!

R.I.P. Or not.

The middle one woke me this morning with the news that Sparkles the fish was dead.  Poor little Sparkles; he died as he’d lived the last week of his life:  upside down.

We shed a tear together and snuggled on the chair next to the fish tank.  Then there was a cheerful burial outside – with plans for a funeral service when the neighbor kids return – and then everyone (but me!!) piled in the car to get another fish.  And maybe go to McDonald’s as well.

No one seems too traumatized and life is moving along happily.

Except Sparkles isn’t the only creature in our house which has passed on to another existence:  my husband’s computer has died.

I thought it was a life-altering catastrophe when MY computer died.  That was small potatoes compared to the death of his computer.  Because now all the time that he would normally spend on his computer (which is, um, a lot) he now spends on my computer (OK, not ALL the time; he's exercised remarkable restraint.  And there are those pesky taxes to finish up.).  And in addition, just before his computer died he had promised the kids he would re-load their favorite game on to his computer, thinking it would be a great, quiet activity for sick kids over a long holiday.

Well, his computer’s out of commission.  Guess whose computer that leaves?  Right.  Mine.

So, between Gary trying to sort out repairs for his computer and get our taxes organized on my computer, and the kids fighting for game time (wait, I though this was supposed to be a QUIET activity!!), well, that leaves surprisingly few hours in the day.

When no one was looking, I grabbed my laptop and ran.  I am currently locked in the bathroom and am steadfastly ignoring all three children, who are shouting and banging on the door.   I think I can hold out for at least another fifteen minutes, but if you get this message, come quickly; I left my power cord in the spare bedroom!

 . . . - - - . . .    . . . - - - . . .    . . . - - - . . . 

Brain Damaged Fish

The kids and I are not the only sick ones in the house.  We have a sick fish.

Remember that fish – a Betta named Sparkles- we were gifted for the middle one’s birthday because I Don’t Speak Spanish and thought we were getting a bathtub toy?  Well, we still have it.  And to support this one fish, we’ve found it necessary to purchase a 5-gallon tank, a plico (don’t EVEN check my spelling), three tiny catfish, and a cache of food/supplemental minerals/water detoxifyer/filters/gravel/fake plants/and tank cleaner that would make any major chain of pet stores envious.  Except one of the catfish went belly-up and one exploded (um, yes), so we’re down to a total of three fish.  But that could change at any moment.

Because Sparkles is sick.  How do you know a fish is sick?  Well, when one of its eyeballs sucks in and the other swells up to the size of….. OK, I’ll spare you the details because I’M getting a little queasy.  Sparkles is sick.  Really really really really really sick.  My husband has been expecting/hoping to have a little fish funeral for about a week now.

But, to paraphrase (and I say this with all seriousness):  “The effective fervent prayer of a 6-year-old concerned about his fish, availeth much.”  Sparkles has had a nothing-short-of-miraculous recovery.

That is to say, he’s not dead.  But he is, apparently blind and brain damaged.

How do you know, I’m sure you are thinking, if a FISH is brain damaged?  I mean, what’s the difference?  (Can you tell I’m not a fish person??)  Well, the swimming upside down thing is a clue.  Another clue is:  he can’t find the food we put out for him.  Even when it lands on his nose.  So, there he is, swimming upside down in circles trying to find the food that’s, literally, right in front of his nose.  It’s the most heart-rendingly pathetic thing I’ve seen in a long time.

I don’t really care for fish – they sort of fit in the category of “bugs” which I REALLY don’t like – but apparently I’m soft hearted to the point of idiocy because do you know what I’m doing for Sparkles?  Feeding him by hand.  I cannot believe I am saying this.  I spend 10-15 minutes every day patiently dropping tiny pellets of food right on his nose until he manages to catch 2 or 3 of them.  Poor Sparkles.

But you know, I’m not really doing it for Sparkles.  It’s my 6-year-old – who wavers between completely unconcerned and teary-eyed at the thought of his poor fish.  But I’m a mom; I’m not fooled.  I know he’ll really be heartbroken if Sparkles dies.  Maybe only for 15 minutes; maybe only till we get another fish, but it’s his little heart breaking that I’m trying to stave off.  If Sparkles dies, well, we’ll have a little life lesson.  I just don’t want it to come on my watch!

Oh, the things we do for our kids!

Breaking and Entering

My toddler has just added another page to his rap sheet:  breaking and entering.  Well, the door was unlocked, so does that just make it "entering"?  And does that count as another "strike" before he spends the rest of his natural life behind bars???

I sent him outside to tell his brothers that the pizza was ready.  In the time it took me to finish my sentence to my husband, put a plate in the dishwasher, and wash my hands, the 3-year-old had gone outside, apparently scooped up mud with two hands, left a lovely pattern of muddy handprints all down the side of our white car, and vanished.

My husband sighed and started washing off the handprints.  I sent the brothers (who, surprisingly!, had heard nothing from the little one) inside.  Then I checked all his usual haunts:  the playground, the "clubhouse" and the friend's house where he swiped the car last time.  He's started making himself at home in their TV room as well, so I even asked the mom to check there as well.  No sign of him.

That left only one place:  the home of our neighbor who had just (2 hours before) returned from having surgery at the hospital.

Now, lest you think I am totally negligent, we had had a LONG conversation about going to this house.  I made it perfectly clear, even to a three-year-old of limited intelligence (which I'm starting to suspect here) that NO ONE was home except the mom, and she was very sick and in bed.  His 4-year-old friend was NOT THERE and he was, under NO CIRCUMSTANCES to go down there.

Well, of course that's where he went.  I didn't even have to open the door to know he was there:  He'd left his muddy shoes in front of the door and muddy handprints all over the wall.  No, I take that back, it wasn't just handprints, it looked like a Jasper Johns masterpiece.  At least I'm glad he didn't take all that mud inside??

And yes, that's where he was:  inside.  I gathered from him that he'd had quite a little discussion with my friend, who was upstairs in bed trying to enjoy her morphine in peace.  I'm just hoping that she'll be too befuddled to remember much of his visit.

Hoo, boy, was he in trouble!  Among other things, he's on total lockdown for the rest of the week-end.  I wanted to make it for the whole week, but about 15 minutes after the incident, it was clear he wasn't even really sure he remembered what all the fuss was about.  Sigh.

But, as last time, his little felony ended with a neighborhood party:  at our house.  The dad and four kids came for pizza (I apologized profusely!) and not long after, two other neighbors showed up with a casserole for the just-out-of-the-hospital family.  My brilliant husband thought to make popcorn and put on a good movie for the kids, and the adults sat at the kitchen table drinking nice wine and eating some chili I'd made.  It was one of the nicest evenings we'd had in a long time; one of those perfect, comfortable evenings with good friends.

So here's the question:  there are still some people on our block I haven't met yet.  Do I send the three-year-old over to help with a nefarious introduction?  Or should I just bake cookies?

Wow! An Award!

Thank you to Alana of Women's Blogger Directory for nominating The Embassy Wife for the Sisterhood Award!  What a great way to encourage fellow women bloggers.

I'll just 'fess up:  I'm such a blogging newbie that I had no idea what this was at first, and then I started checking out some previous nominees.  The Embassy Wife is in sterling company.  In fact, she's quite a bit intimidated by these amazing bloggers and is trying to hide behind the punch bowl so no one will notice her and eject her from the party!  Wandering Pam and Scribble City Central blogs are just plain beautiful, and Willow Dreams is heartbreakingly beautiful.

As I understand it, I now get to nominate at least 5 other women bloggers for this award, and these ladies in turn are asked to pass on support (in the form of nominations!) to at least five other women bloggers.

You'll notice that many of my nominations below are from PNN.  I really am a neophyte when it comes to blogging, and most of my blogging "friends" are here!  And the nominations are -- 

Kimink by Kimberly Michalski -- Not only does Kim have a fun and gentle way of looking at the world (so welcome in my hectic life), she is an outstanding photographer and an excellent mentor as well.  She has really taken me under her wing and showed me how to (begin to be!) a blogger.  Thank you, Kim!

Mamabear -- Somehow, in the midst of dealing with a son with autism and a daughter with ADHD she keeps a smile on her face and one in my heart.  Reading her posts is just a joy (and a lot of fun besides)!

Wearmanyhats -- This is such a fun, humorous blog to read, and Wearmany hats also has a real gift for taking an everyday catastrophe, turning it into a great belly laugh, and then pulling out of it a remarkable life lesson.

Grade-by-Grade -- This is Trish Wilkinson and she has a companion website at www.gradebygrade.com.  Trish is an elementary school teacher who is committed to helping parents successfully get their elementary-aged kids through school.  Her blog and website are a WEALTH of really useful information. Her advice has helped us turn my oldest son's school year from a potential disaster to what looks like will be a year to remember in a very happy way.  Thanks, Trish!

Wattwork -- Kathleen Watt is a former-opera singer for the New York Met and a survivor of a cancer that has claimed half of her face.  She is a woman of phenomenal courage who is currently writing a book on her experiences, and this is her blog.  This blog is relatively new, and Kathleen doesn't post often (I'm hoping to goad her into more posts!), but her writing is so completely lyrical and moving that you'll find yourself hanging on her every word.  I think Kathleen could make a grocery list sound poetic.  You can also catch up with her at her website.

Up the Ben and Down the Boozer -- (I'm cheating and posting six nominees!) This is a laugh-until-the-tears-roll-down-your-face sort of blog.  Meg Robbins is an exceptionally talented writer and traveler, and if you've ever wanted to not just go to, but really experience, Great Britain, this is the place for you.  And if you just need a good laugh, she's great for that too!

Here are the rules for this award, shamelessly copied directly off of Wandering Pam's blog (thank you so much for your help, Pam!):

1.  Put the logo on your blog or post.

2. Nominate at least 5 blogs which show great "ATTITUDE" and/or "GRATITUDE".

3.  Be sure to link to your nominees within your post.

4.  Let your nominees know they have received this award by commenting on their blog.

5.  Be sure you link your nomination post to the person who nominated you!

Once again, thank you Alana at Women's Blogger Directory -- you've passed on such a lovely gift!

Evil Plot? Or Technologically Challenged?

Is it just me?  Or does this happen to you:

Yesterday, we were having problems with our internet.  I'm not technically savvy, so I don't know if it was the cable modem, the router, the wireless thingy or what.  But I know what to do, and I did it:  unplug all relevant boxes, plug them back in.  No internet.  

So I reseated all the connectors.  No internet.

So I unplugged and re-plugged everything two more times.  No internet.

So I started fiddling with settings in my computer.  No internet.

For good measure, I unplugged and re-plugged everything one more time.  No internet.

My husband (the technical guru) walked in the room, and I mentioned with a sigh that we were having problems with our internet connection.

He said, "Hmm," picked up the wireless thingy, jiggled the power connection (which I had unplugged and replugged SEVERAL TIMES), and our internet came back up.  Immediately.

"Technology likes me," he said as I glared daggers at him and that little plastic box.

I'm not sure if I want to shake my husband or smash the box.  Probably shouldn't do either, then I'd have no internet, and no one to "fix" it.

An Ode to Preschool

They welcome him in with a smile and a hug;

Now he's not putting permanent ink on my rug.

He can laugh and run and play;

My house can recover for the day.

The living room's a mess,

The kitchen's a wreck;

Do I smell something burning on the deck???

The fish are frightened --

So am I --

Was that a Lego I saw floating by??

The computer mouse is missing

The toys are on the floor

I'm pretty sure that's jelly

On the laundry room door.

The DVDs are scattered from here to there,

There are 600 children's books

On my chair

And on the floor

And in the bed

And in the bathtub.....

It's only 7:30 in the morn,

Why do I feel so muddled and worn?

O Preschool, Preschool, I love thee!

A safe place for him;

A fun place for me.

MORE Women Blogging!

I had no idea women were such prolific bloggers.  Well, I guessed.  No, not really.  I'm astounded, even after trolling around PNN.

Anyway, I tumbled on to yet ANOTHER sphere of women blogging at Women's Blogger Directory;there is a lot of great stuff there, so check it out!

Volcano? Prison? Or Sleep?

We didn't start out planning to spend the day in an old prison (the Children's Museum).  We had planned for an active volcano instead.  (Volcano.... prison; volcano.... prison.  Hmmm.  I just can't make up my mind.)

But that was before my day started at 2:30 a.m. with the middle one padding silently into the room.  I don't know if it was his quiet footfalls that woke me or the screaming-bloody-murder coming from the bedroom he shares with his younger brother.

The littlest had apparently had a nightmare, and no amount of cuddles, room changes, or lights on would comfort him.  Until I opened up my computer and started up a video I had been watching with my 8-year-old the other day.

Was it about Star Wars?  Superheroes?  Or even Sports?  No.  It was a NOVA special on String Theory.  Now, why in the world STRING THEORY should exert a calming influence on either a three- or and eight-year-old is just beyond me.  But it worked.

And, after 15 minutes of string theory, a found binky, a visit from Dad, two band-aids, and a Kleenex, we were finally ready to settle down in the bed in the guest bedroom.

But, as there is no bed rail in there and the little one runs marathons or something in his sleep, I stayed and acted as the bed rail, thinking I'd carry him back to bed when he fell asleep.  Except I fell asleep too.  Sort of.  Just enough that the thought of carrying a three-year-old through a darkened house was very unattractive.  So, I dozed, uncomfortably, mostly hanging in space, until 5:30 a.m. when slamming doors announced that EVERY CHILD in the house was awake, including the one I was body blocking.  On a Saturday.

My husband, who is a saint among men, smilingly took my grumbled comment of, "You owe me one," as I tumbled into bed; slipped silently out of bed and out of the room; and closed the doors so I could sleep.

And boy, did I!  

Thanks, Gary!

Why is There Charcoal in My Microwave?

Grand Theft Auto

My 3-year-old has already embarked on a life of crime:  yesterday, he stole the neighbor's car.

I was upstairs and heard a lot of banging at the front door, and plaintive calls of "I need heeeeelp!"

When I went downstairs, I found him trying to drag a toy car -- the kind you sit in and push with your feet -- into the house.  We do not have a car like this.

"Help me get this from those kids!"  He wailed, continuing to try to lift it up the steps and into the safety of the house.

"Benjamin, where did you get this?"

He pointed in the general direction of 'away from the house', "Over there."

It turns out that he had walked to a neighbor's house (they have two small boys and a killer collection of cars -- electric and non-electric) and had swiped a sporty yellow model with a red horn button that really works.  He was quite proud of himself.

We hashed out the idea that, although it's OK in our neighborhood to borrow cars and scooters and bikes (ours regularly make the rounds), we really needed to ask first AND it was not OK to bring it in the house.

So, we parked the car back where it belonged, and I knocked on the door to ask if we could borrow it.  Benjamin couldn't believe that no one was home, and wanted to try to worm in through the key hole, so, to distract him, I suggested we go find out what the loud music was.

Turns out the loud music was a 4-year-old's birthday party at the neighbors'.  When we walked by, the host came out and swooped on Benjamin, carrying him to where the other kids were dancing, the hostess handed me a chocolate covered banana and begged me to have a seat and stay as long as I could; did I want a drink?  It was a marvelous party!

There is nothing like Latin hospitality!!

So, now the question is -- which is worse:  car theft by a three year old or gate-crashing by his mom??

Sports Day!! Sports Day!!

We hated it.  We hated every minute of Sports Day at school today.

I was there as an assistant for the first graders -- taking kids to the bathroom, shepherding them to the next event, pulling them out of the trees, things like that.  So I got to see everyone in action all day.

All the other kids liked Sports Day.  There was laughing and shouting and jumping and running.  But not my kids:  there was moaning and wailing and crying and grumpiness.

Actually, Timothy ran the foot race brilliantly.  He got lapped at least once, happened to cross the finish line just behind the first place kid, and then stopped.  He thinks he got second place.  When you're in first grade, it's OK to believe that.

Poor Jonathan, I think he was so nervous at the beginning of the race (especially since his classmates are all 2-3 years older than he is) that when I went over to encourage him and cheerily remind him that "slow and steady wins the race," he had a complete meltdown (claiming I had revealed his secret strategy to everyone in earshot), and as soon as the whistle blew, he ran off the track.  The headmistress gently shepherded him back, saying he had to participate (oooh, I was of mixed feelings about that), but that he could walk.  So he did, tears streaming down his face the whole way.

But, he seemed to recover later on and when he came home, said he'd had a "pretty good" day.

Not so Timothy.

After the foot race came tug of war.  And for some reason, he got it in his head that he hated this worse than warts.  He had a meltdown that made Chernobyl look like a place you really want to be.  I certainly wanted to be there.  I finally had to remove him physically from the competition and take him to an empty classroom.  The day went downhill from there.

I had to leave at noon, and as I was driving home, it hit me:  the boys had had an adequate and moderately healthy breakfast and snack, but no protein.  They are just like me:  I simply cannot function on carbohydrates alone.  In fact, I sort of melt down myself.

Timothy confirmed this for me when he got home; he said that he felt a LOT better after he'd had lunch (a PBJ & some fruit) and had had a LOT of fun in the afternoon.

[Slapping forehead].

So, it may mean I'm frying hamburger patties at 6 a.m., but that settles it:  I'm tossing the raisin bran and we're having PROTEIN for breakfast from now on.

Boys!

From my bedroom -- where I've been trying to get some work done (you see how that's going:  I'm blogging now.) -- I can see two of my boys playing outside.  They're in a small playground across the street from our house.  And, since it's "summer" here they're intent on having fun.

Somewhere they found a hose, and if it wasn't on when they found it, it's certainly on now.  They've turned that muddy bit under the swings into Lake Baikal (the deepest lake in the world); they're covered head to toe with mud, and now -- as the oldest is spraying the youngest -- with water too.  I think they've imported some fish as well, and have started to build a raft.

Why does this matter?  

We have to get in the car in five minutes to pick my other son up at school.

I think we're going to be late.

Expat Women Blogging

  Expat Women --

Helping Women Live Overseas

Mwah mwah-mwah?

Remember those old Charlie Brown specials where all the adults talked like muted trombones?  "Mwah-mwah, mwah mwah mwah mwah!"

This is what my life sounds like to me now, in Spanish.

An example of a recent conversation (conducted entirely in Spanish.  I translate what I THINK I said for your convenience):

"Hello, I'd like a cappuccino please."

"Mwah mwah mwah small mwah large?"

"A large cappuccino.  And a ham and cheese sandwich as well."

"Mwah mwah mwah-mwah hot mwah?

"No, I'll just have the sandwich cold."

"Mwah mwah."

(I hand over what I hope is an adequate amount of money and am relieved when I get change instead of a blank stare)

"Mwah mwah-mwah mwah-mwah table mwah."

(From which I understand her to mean that she'll bring it to my table when it's ready)  "Oh, thank you."

I have no idea what that conversation was really about, but I ended up with a cold sandwich and a large cappuccino brought to my table, so my guesses couldn't have been too far off the mark.

And maybe, if I study really hard and practice a lot, SOMEday I'll understand TWO words per sentence.

A girl can dream, can't she?

Now, That's Just Weird

My 8-year-old son just wandered into our bedroom, thirty minutes after he was supposed to be asleep.

"I'm actually not a bit tired."  Codespeak for:  I know whatever you're doing in here (reading) is more fun.  Can I join you?

My husband pondered this for a moment, and then made the most brilliant suggestion I've ever heard from another human being.

"I know, Jonathan, let me get you a college lecture (from The Learning Company) for the CD player in your alarm clock."

Jonathan's eyes lit up and he said, with amazed wonder in his voice, "Would that make most kids go to sleep??"  As if he couldn't imagine SLEEPING through such an incredible experience.

I assured him it probably would.

"Not me!  I'm going to listen to the whole thing!!"

And he probably will.  

Right now, my husband reports, Jonathan is huddled up to the speaker on the CD player, drinking in every word of "Einstein's Relativity and the Quantum Revolution."  Total running time (for Part 1):  six hours.  I told him there would be a test in the morning, and his eyes lit up with what I can only describe as joy.

Now, you tell me:  what's weirder?  That we had this particular CD set in the first place?  That my husband thought to recommend it?  Or that an EIGHT-year-old is going to spend the better part of tomorrow telling me all about time travel, relativity, light speed and quantum mechanics?

I'm not sure either.

Grief

My mom called this afternoon to tell me her cousin had died.  Suddenly, tragically, completely unexpectedly.

It had been several years since I saw Allison, she lived in a different state than my parents, but for some reason her death hit me very hard.  I found an on-line newspaper version of her obituary; it was lengthy, she had been involved in humanitarian work.  I hadn't realized how deeply involved she was until I read the article.  It was strange to read the very public obituary of a woman I had loved since childhood, and to see her life summed up in a series of quotes by experts; her father's life distilled into "a chemist."  Her mother only got her full maiden name listed.

Didn't the newspaper know?  This was my Uncle H and Aunt S; two of the most remarkable people from my childhood.  My Uncle served in WWII -- behind enemy lines, it's rumored in the family -- and (also rumored) helped debrief a prominent Nazi defector.  I don't know if these rumors are true, but he used to take me to play golf with him; and he strode like a kindly, white-haired god through my childhood.  Aunt S outlived him by several years, and aside from the fantastic Christmas and birthday presents she sent, I remember her as my favorite aunt:  who sent me a corsage on my 16th birthday (the day I became a "lady"); and paid for me to fly up to visit her once when I was in college, just because she loved me.  We drank wine and talked philosophy and I felt very grown up.

And Allison, world traveler, humanitarian, my "aunt" with her keen sense of humor so much like her mother's; her ready smile and kindness, remembered especially to me as a gawky teen-ager at family gatherings; her two amazing children.

And they're all gone, and the obituary didn't capture any of this.  Experts were quoted, professionals were consulted.  It was a very good obituary.  But it didn't talk about Allison; it talked about someone with her name, but not about her self.

And as my mom talked long-distance from another country telling me about our family tragedy half a world away, a crashing sense of loss bore down on me.  And I wanted someone, anyone, to mourn with me.  But my husband is gone; my children were getting off the bus; and whom of my friends could I call?  Who would understand?  Who in my life now has any connection with my 'other life'?  There is no one; even my husband, though he works so hard to be sympathetic when these calls come, can't possibly understand that my uncle or cousin or neighbor or teacher who just died -- whom he's never met, whom I haven't seen in years -- meant so much or why or how their death breaks my heart, and I end up feeling silly for my tears and grieving, inadequately, in secret.

And the loss I felt wasn't just for Allison, although I so regret the years I will not have to know her better; but for all the friends and neighbors and teachers and acquaintances who have died in the years I've been away.  People from my childhood, whom I should have come to know better; people I loved, and should have loved better.  And all I can do is send flowers and hope they arrive on time.  Their families move on, and when next I see them a year has passed and although the grief, for me, is renewed, they have healed and moved on and I still have no one to grieve with.

So, I will again grieve alone and grieve secretly, although perhaps a bit more adequately, this time.  And I will hope, that for a while, at least -- at least until we've moved back to the States and I can grieve in company -- there won't be a 'next time'.

Got School Issues?

Boy, do I have a website for you!  A woman in a writing group I belong to -- her name is Trish Wilkinson -- is in the process of publishing a book that will help parents guide their kids through elementary school.  She's taught school for 20 years, and get this -- she's taught EVERY SINGLE GRADE, first through sixth. Trish was able to give me some excellent advice on my resident trouble-maker in fourth grade, and really helped turn his school year around from heading towards a complete disaster to actually having fun.

The book won't be out for a while, but in the meantime, her website is fabulous:  she's got all kinds of articles and information and (best yet):  if you ask her a question, she'll answer it.  With great advice.  I HIGHLY recommend subscribing to her blog; she comes out with some great stuff every week or so.

Trish also has excellent guidance for special needs kids at school -- on both ends of the spectrum, from learning disabled to really gifted, she knows how to deal with it all.

Trish's website is:  http://www.gradebygrade.com.  Hope it helps!

1950s America -- In My Front Yard

This morning, I propped my front door open, and went off to fix breakfast.  I heard my oldest get on his bike and go clattering down the driveway.  The middle one followed soon after, running on bare feet down the street to their "clubhouse."  With my boys leading the way, some of the neighborhood kids have claimed a good-sized secret hidey-hole behind some bushes as their clubhouse.  They spend their days trading cool rocks for metal bottle caps, constructing teepees out of bamboo and scavenged leaves (really big, tropical leaves), and defending their fort against all comers, mainly grown ups.  

This morning, Jonathan and Timothy had been working on making weapons and farming implements -- using sticks, homemade playdough, and my microwave (as a kiln).  I knew they were off to test their latest creations and that I would get a full report later on.

I sat down with a cup of tea and a good book and waved at the three-year-old as he, too, tore out the front door on his tricycle.  I had heard some other kids playing at the playground and figured he was going out to investigate.  When I poked my head outside a few minutes later, I saw him swinging and chatting incomprehensibly to a neighbor girl who speaks no English.  I waved at my neighbors across the street -- their front door was open too -- wondered where the folks in house number 1 had gone for the week-end, and went back to my book.

It sounds like a dream, doesn't it?  It sounds like the sort of neighborhoods you and I grew up in where it was safe to play outside; safe to leave your door open; and safe to chat with the neighbors.

Somehow, here, in the third world, in a country where crime is beginning to spike alarmingly, we've found that again.

Part of the secret is that we live in a strictly-controlled gated community with only a dozen houses and very competent guards who know everyone.  The trade-off, of course, is that we are surrounded by walls, barbed wire, and metal bars, which, on a rainy afternoon with nothing to do and no place to go, can start to feel alarmingly like a prison.

But this morning as I watched my kids play, I decided it was really more like paradise.

Holding Down the Fort -- One Psychotic Episode at a Time

Why do these things always only ever happen when your husband is out of town?  You know what I mean:  your life goes to heck in a forklift.  Do your husband's business trips look like this for you?:

You've already read the bowling saga; the 4 hours of sleep I got that night are the most I've had all week.

The next night, I wasn't able to start dozing off till 11:30.  Starting at 11:35 and lasting till 4:45, at intervals insuring I had just started to get sleepy each time, the following sequence of events occurred:

First child peed in his bed.  I fixed it.

Second child peed in his bed.  I fixed it.

Child crawled in bed with me and sniffed for 30 minutes.

Child decided to return to his own bed.  I helped him.

The computer downstairs, which only intermittently has internet connection, finally loaded a web page with lots of VERY LOUD music.  I shut it off.

The phone rang; wrong number, I think, because I thought it was the alarm and didn't actually answer the phone.  Instead, I tried to turn off the alarm and ending up turning ON the alarm.  It took me a while to realize what the noise was.

Very awake child crawled in bed with me and chatted till the sun came up and the alarm went off.  For real, this time.

And then it was Tuesday.  Read above for litany of Tuesday night's events.

Wednesday morning, as I was wondering if I were going to become psychotic before I could take a nap, the phone rang.  A friend of mine, whose husband is also out of the country, had spent all night at the hospital with her three-month-old.  Pam, who was calling and who had also been at the hospital all night, had to go to work.  Could I step in and help?

Of course!  So Benjamin and I spent the rest of the day helping.  That culminated in a two-year-old (the older brother) coming home and spending the night with us.  But, on the upside, Benjamin is so in love with this kid that he now thinks he's his little brother, I was in bed by 8:30, and only one person peed in his bed and then crawled in with me.  It was a relatively peaceful night.

(By the way, the baby is still in the hospital -- for observation -- but seems to be fine.  The main concern is dehydration and he's in no danger.  Several people at the Embassy spent a good bit of time yesterday & the day before both helping the mom and making sure the dad got on the first plane back.  The Embassy community is unequaled, in my experience, in the way it can rally around those in need.)

And today, the best thing in the world happened:  the preschooler came down with a mild fever.  So did I.  Which translated into the most blessed thing in the world:  a NAP.  I slept for two solid hours, and when I woke, I realized that I was human again.

And now, can you believe it?!  I get to sleep some more!!

Good night!!

The Most Dangerous Sport in the World

The most dangerous sport?  You guessed it:  Bowling.

My husband is on a business trip, and Sunday afternoon I thought I might call my babysitter to watch the kids while I went and sat in a sauna for a couple of hours, had some sushi afterwards (all for less than $20, believe it or not!)....  Something relaxing before a hectic week back at school and alone in the house with a preschooler started.

As we were getting out of the car from church, our neighbor came over and asked if we'd like to go bowling with them (they have 4 kids about the same age as ours).  What could I say?  Especially since my kids heard the invitation.

We went bowling.

It was a huge hit, as you might imagine.  But very painful.  We had the requisite squashed fingers, of course.  And, when the three-year-old's ball came to a dead stop in the lane 2 feet from the line, I, all unthinking, dashed out into the lane to get it.  

Big mistake.  Did you know they OIL bowling lanes??  I fell smack on my bum -- in front of everyone at the crowded bowling alley -- and then had to make my undignified way back to safety.  Limping, of course, and my behind covered with oily dirt.  My two older boys had also dashed out after the ball & ended up flat on their faces.  My six-year-old finally ended up crawling back to the line, pushing the ball in front of him while the eight-year-old pretended he was ice skating.

We were very popular with the bowling staff, as you might imagine.

Somewhere along the way the six-year-old seems to have pulled a groin muscle and seriously bruised his knee.  Maybe it was pushing that bowling ball.  And, while I was reaching for a ball for the three-year-old, I felt something give in my back.  You know what I mean; that sort of slicing feeling you get when you've done something really bad to yourself.  It didn't hurt at first.  It REALLY hurt by the time I got home.

So, after I had hurriedly tucked the boys in bed, I raided the medicine cabinet for some really nice pills from the last time I had done something bad to my back.  Forgetting that I hadn't had much supper and that these pills do bad things to me when I take them on an empty stomach:  like make me faint.

But, I went right to sleep.  Which was nice.  I woke up at 3:30, when they wore off, which wasn't so nice.  I got painfully out of bed for a drink of water and realized a couple of steps into the process that I was, most definitely, going to faint.

After that, I remember lying on my back hearing a noise like a freight train crash rushing overhead, wondering why there was a light fixture in the wall and why it was lit in the middle of the night.  And then I realized I was actually looking at the ceiling.  Somehow, I had flailed my way half way across the room, knocking into a shelf and slamming myself into the light switch before collapsing.  Turns out I was the noise like a freight train.  Good aim, is all I have to say.

So, I struggled to sit up and half scootched, half crawled down the stairs and into the kitchen for something to eat.  I wished to avoid a repeat performance.  I stumbled into a basket of oranges which revived me enough that I could make it to the peanut butter and crackers and check out my list of injuries.

It's a pitiful total:  I have a tiny bump on my head and two sore hips (but that might be from bowling).  I mean, how am I supposed to even get any sympathy?

So I went back upstairs, got under the covers & just as I was getting sleepy (around 4:30), the six year old limped into the room and crawled in bed with me, moaning and groaning in pain.  We groaned in mutual distress together, and laughed at our mutual groaning, until the three-year-old joined us around 5:30, and then there was a lot more giggling involved.

Until we had to get out of bed and the groaning started again, and it's been going on all day.  Mostly by me.

Next time, I'm going to the sauna.

Haggis with Tatties and Neeps

Friday night we went to a party.  We dressed nicely, listened to bagpipes, watched a guy in a skirt (excuse me, a KILT) quote incomprehensible things to a boiled sheep's stomach, and then we ate the contents.  And what kind of party is it, anyway, where you eat the guest of honor?  (The haggis.)

Friday was my first Burns NIght Supper; it will not, however, be my last.  The only little 'dip' in the evening's festivities was when they set the haggis down in front of me and I started working very hard to not think about what it was.  I must say that when the "clan chief" suggested that an appropriate way to eat the haggis was to pour on a bit of whisky, I cheered internally.  My plate was swimming in whisky by the time I was done.  I don't know if I like haggis or not (I don't particularly care for whisky), but I ate it all and by the end, I didn't even car.  We went with an English/Irish couple; I sat next to the English wife, and she confessed that she LOVES haggis.  I suppose I could have given her the rest of mine, but after a bite or two of haggis, I needed the whisky.

They did feed us a "proper" supper, and afterwards there was Scottish dancing.  I looked on longingly -- that's the kind of dancing I could wrap my head around; it's a bit like square dancing.  The waltz is just too complicated for me -- but I knew there was NO CHANCE I'd ever be out there.  My husband of 15 years Does Not Dance.

But, we had not reckoned on Donal, our Irish friend.  With a cheery smile, he grabbed my elbow and escorted me and his wife out on the floor, calling to Gary over his shoulder.  Gary had no choice but to follow.  Donal confessed openly he had no idea what he was doing, and the four of us joined four other people who had also never danced a Scottish reel before, and we had more fun than I've had in at least a decade.  It took us several turns around the floor (WITH a caller) to have the foggiest idea which way to go, but that didn't stop us and none of the other groups seemed to mind when we'd bump into them.  I guess that's another thing the whisky's for!

We danced until the band quit, and then the crowd persuaded them into an encore and we danced some more.

We ran out of music before we ran out of dancing.  I've put Burns night on my calendar in BIG LETTERS for next year, and if there's a Supper near you next January 25, by all means, GO!

11 days, 20 hours, 30 minutes

Until Benjamin goes back to preschool.  But who's counting?

I am, and I've been counting for THREE SOLID MONTHS!!

Don't get me wrong; Benjamin is a treasure and LOADS of fun to have around.  I have loved having him and his two older brothers at home during the Costa Rican summer.

But it is very expensive to keep Benjamin at home.  Things break: things like computers, stereos, DVDs, furniture....  Things also go missing:  bills, books, clothing, parts of my computer...

It's cheaper in the long run to pay for preschool than to have him home full time.  And it's much better for my blood pressure.

11 days, 20 hours, 25 minutes.......

Exploding Laundry Soap

You just know it’s going to one of those weeks when your laundry soap explodes.

Yesterday marked the beginning of what promises to be very much one of those weeks.

Since I have three small boys (= mucho mucho dirt) and laundry stain treatment in a spray bottle costs about $5 per bottle, I asked my husband to pick up a jar of pre-treatment gel the last time he was at the store.  Which he did.

But, what we both thought was gel, was actually an evil, caustic powder which can be mixed with water to pre-treat stains.

Since, however, this powder doesn’t actually dissolve in water and it’s so caustic it eats the skin off my fingers, I needed a better solution than mixing it in a cup and scrubbing it into the innumerable stains my children's clothing contracts.

My housekeeper Marisela came up with the (I thought) brilliant idea of mixing some with water in an empty spray bottle.  She did, and we congratulated ourselves on our cleverness.  I went off to blog and she sat down with a well-deserved cup of coffee.

About 5 minutes later, a bomb exploded in my laundry room.

This evil powder apparently fizzes slightly (OK, a lot) when you put it in water.  So much pressure had built up in the spray bottle that it exploded, showering all the walls in the laundry room with soapy water, and spraying 10 feet out the open door to coat my newly painted walls in the kitchen (more on that painting bit later).  It covered walls, ceiling, clean laundry, floor, dirty laundry, ironing….  Hoo boy!

So, I guess it’s back to the drawing board.  Maybe at this point, $5 for a bottle of properly mixed spray doesn’t sound so bad after all.  At least it would be safe.

Maybe I can use this other stuff on the resident rooster.  Here chickie, chickie, chick!

Pasta: A Very Bad Idea

Friday I had a brilliant idea:  The boys had picked out a pesto recipe in a kids’ cookbook that they wanted to make.  So I thought, why not make the pasta too?

I’ll tell you why not:  it’s a bad idea.

I had this vision of the four of us sitting cheerfully at the kitchen table, cranking the handle of my pasta maker, laughing delightedly as the perfect strands of pasta poured from the machine.

 You know it didn’t happen like that.

First, we had to run a piece of dough through the machine to remove the bugs and debris that had accumulated while the thing sat in our cabinet.  And then persuade the little one not to eat that piece of dough.  Meanwhile, the rest of the dough sat in a misshapen lump on the table, soaking up water from the air (atmospheric humidity in Costa Rica during a rain storm:  2,000%), and getting stickier and stickier.  Which, of course, no one noticed until the machine was completely gummed up.

Six tries and four cups of flour later, we had a sheet of dough we could feed through the cutters.  It came out looking like a birds’ nest.  Back to the flour bin.  I could have just dumped the whole bin of flour on the table.  It certainly looked like I had.  There was flour on me, on the table, on the walls, on the floor, ground into the carpet, coating the pasta – and it was still too sticky.

Fifteen minutes and one test sheet of pasta into the process, the oldest stormed off in a huff because it wasn’t working, I was waving floury hands and screaming at the little one who was eating all my dough, and we hadn’t even told the middle one what we were doing.

By now, it was personal.  I was going to make that pasta.  No matter what.  So, the little one sat at the table and ate raw pasta dough while I grimly fed lump after lump into the machine.  In an hour and a half, I managed to make about 6 ounces of pasta.  The recipe said it made 8 ounces, but the little one kept eating it.

Per instructions, I laid it out on a clean dish towel to dry, and set about making the pesto.  By this time, no one was interested in cooking, least of all me.  But we were going to EAT that pasta.  No matter what.  So I chopped and blended while the little one banged happily on the table with a spoon.

Except he wasn’t banging on the table.  He was banging on the pasta, I learned much too late.  My lovely, semi-adequate strands of pasta which I had laid out on the table had been pounded into an undifferentiated glutinous mass.  I dumped it in the boiling water anyway and we ate it, lumps and all.  It wasn’t too bad.

I’ve got a pasta machine for sale.  Dirt cheap.  Guaranteed to provide fun family together time.

I’ll even pay shipping.

All for the Want of a Horseshoe Nail...

Actually, it would be more accurate to say "All for the want of a solder connection," but that just doesn't sound very poetic.

Alas, after a months-long lingering illness, my computer (peace be upon it) died while in surgery to replace a failed hard drive.  Extensive efforts to revive it were unsuccessful.  The family is in deepest mourning.

It is so completely dead, I have to get another computer.  And, do you know what caused this catastrophic failure?  A plastic connector had been poorly installed and came un-soldered when it was disturbed during the course of the hard drive change.  A TINY plastic connector:  you could fit 4 or 5 of them on a penny.  I'd upload a picture, but, well, I'm operating under "reduced circumstances" and it's a bit difficult at the moment.

This plastic connector happened to be a key component in line with the "On" switch.  No connector, no electricity.  No electricity, no computer.  No computer, my life comes to a screeching halt, especially since I'm signed up for an on-line class that starts in less than one week.

Why is all this so important?  Why does anyone care?  

In a word:  Living room furniture.

We have been living overseas in furnished government quarters for 15 years.  We moved overseas just 5 months after we got married, and the sum total of our household furniture in storage consists of:  2 beds, three dressers, an end table, 2 chairs Gary brought with him from his army days (long before we were married and very ugly) and a pink couch I bought for $50 at a garage sale 16 years ago.  That's it.  On our own, we don't even have enough beds for everyone in our family to sleep in, and, frankly, even I am scared to sit on that couch.

Since we are planning to move back to the US after our tour here in Costa Rica ends, we REALLY need to make plans to get some furniture, and had been sort of setting aside some money to get something here.  Sigh.  Bye bye furniture.

I guess we still have some time, though, and I will be getting a nice computer.

Come to think of it, maybe I could glue some legs on my old computer and call it a coffee table.  It'd be a start!

Grace

My neighbor Rocio is the most grandmotherly grandmother I’ve ever met.  No, she doesn’t wear an apron and bake cookies – her maid wears the apron and bakes the cookies:  Rocio is very upper class Costa Rican.

What I mean is: I’ve never seen a grandmother who loves her grandchildren in quite the same way that Rocio does.  She’s told me a couple of times that the rule she’s hashed out with her children is this:  at Rocio’s house, what Rocio says for the grandkids goes.  Absolutely.  At her children’s homes, she’ll accede to their rules and keep her mouth shut, even if she has to leave in the middle of a dinner party (which she has done before!) to honor her part of the bargain.

Frankly, I thought this was going a bit overboard, and then she told me this story:

A couple of years ago, one of her sons and his wife were going through a difficult separation.  Their pre-teen daughter was extremely upset and depressed about the whole thing and came to spend some time with Rocio.

“It was lunchtime, so I made her lunch,” Rocio said.  “She didn’t want it.  So I made her something new.  She didn’t want it.  Five times I made her lunch, and still she didn’t want it.  So I said, ‘OK.’”

By this point, Puritan Me is thinking:  “I would have told that young lady exactly what she was eating for lunch.  The end!!”  But Rocio wasn’t done.

“So I brought her a glass of something to drink.  She looked me in the eye, and dropped the glass right on the floor.  So I brought her another glass.  She dropped this one right on the floor too.”

And I’m thinking:  “She did what?!  You did what?!"  But I didn’t say anything since I was a guest in her home.

“So I brought her another glass.”  (Enough already!!  Straighten this girl out!)  “And she dropped that on the floor.  Five times she did this.”  (FIVE??!)  “And I said to her (Oh, finally!):  do you need some more glasses?”  (WHAT?)  “I will bring you a whole tray of glasses, if you’d like, and you can drop them all on the floor.  I will bring you all the glasses in my house, and you may drop them on the floor if it will make you feel better.”  (You have got to be kidding me!!)

“And then she started to cry.  And she told me, ‘I’m so sad about Mom and Dad.’  And then we could talk.”

And, finally, I understood.

Rocio saw this, not as being about defiance or disobedience – which my Puritan little mind homed in on right away.  This was all about grace, about loving her granddaughter no matter what.  About giving her granddaughter what she needed, not what Rocio (or I) thought she ‘needed’.

I hope I learn to love like that someday.  Very soon.

Volcanoes: The Perfect Playgrounds

Assuming, of course, you're not there during an eruption, I can think of no better place to play than on the slopes of a drowsing volcano.  We played in the hot springs at Arenal Volcano for hours over Thanksgiving week-end; we played so long that some of us got squinky-eyed.

Oh, sure, you have to put up with the occasional mild earthquake (like the one that woke my husband at 4 a.m. one morning of our stay).  But, if, like me, you're a heavy sleeper, even those aren't too disturbing.  And there's the smoke, drifting ash, and occasional glow of the lava flows, but those were on the far side of the mountain.  Really, we had nothing to worry about.

And last week-end, just before the big earthquake, we went to Irazu Volcano.  It's much sleepier than Arenal, and hasn't done anything interesting since the 1960s when, at one point, it colluded with a passing storm to

 rain five inches of mud and ash on the surrounding area.  We were there under much more favorable conditions:  a cold, biting wind that froze the blood in our veins, brilliant sunshine, an unlimited supply of sand for digging in, and a coatimundi.  And in case you're wondering, those claws and teeth are actually much longer and sharper than they look in the picture.  And even with the marvelous safety afforded by the "zoom" feature on my camera, I was frankly just too darn close to this animal, which proved itself to be quite bad tempered by snapping at a tourist (not me).  Frankly, I can't say that I blame it.

On the way up to Irazu, we stopped at the most remarkable restaurant:  the Linda Vista, smack dab in the middle of nowhere on the hill up towards the summit of the volcano.  It touts itself as being the restaurant at the highest elevation in Central America (and I'd have to get the guidebook to know how much that is.  I'm not getting the guide book.), but there's a small restaurant at the volcano itself, a good bit higher up the mountain, so I think the Linda Vista loses out on that count.  But what it does have is more than 30,000 business cards tacked to its walls, along with close to $100 in small bills from various countries around the world; napkin doodles; the occasional newspaper front page; and a few expired passports.  I saw memorabilia from Germany, China, Korea, Brazil, Tennessee, France, Ohio, Mexico, and every other country in Central and South America.  They also had a large Nativity scene on the floor in one room which portrayed the Wise Men offering their gifts to a chicken.  I question the theology implicit in this display, but I can certainly understand the desire to placate such an obnoxious animal.

And tomorrow, we're heading off for Arenal again for several days, and we'll be staying at the Arenal Observatory Lodge, which, in part, houses a National Geographic volcano observatory.  It also has paths leading to hot springs and along lava flows old enough to be solid but young enough to glow red at night.  This trip also happens to be over my birthday -- can you think of anywhere better to spend your birthday than a place where the tiniest tectonic shift will result in tons of ash and lava raining down on your head?  I couldn't either.

But, the hotel assures us they're in a "low danger" area.  So, if you hear of more disasters in Costa Rica (heaven forbid), keep an eye out for us being airlifted out by helicopter.  We'll be sure to wave at the camera!